


to carry you with me till spring

by ReinventAndBelieve



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: An Authorial Obsession with Witcher Potions, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Overhearing Sex, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Prompt Fill, Threshold of Revelation, horny angst, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinventAndBelieve/pseuds/ReinventAndBelieve
Summary: It’s not that Geralt listens to Jaskier’s conquests on purpose. He’s not…spying,or eavesdropping, or anything of the sort. He just has heightened senses that are sometimes a touch unruly, difficult to fully divert from Jaskier’s frankly unnecessarily loud, frequent lovemaking.Or: on the night before they part for the winter, Geralt overhears an intimate encounter that forces him to take stock of his relationship with Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 649





	to carry you with me till spring

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the prompt "things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear" from an anon over on tumblr. The Geralt-Hears-Jaskier-Fuck fic is one of my favorite tropes in this fandom, so this prompt gave me a somewhat valid excuse to try my hand at it.
> 
> Just to be safe: CW for sex that, while totally consensual, involves someone in an less-than-great headspace. Not at all to the point that I would consider it dubcon or anything like that, I just want to warn appropriately :)

Another sinful moan resonates through the room, and Geralt grinds his teeth. He slams the pestle into the mortar, decimating the verbena petals with a newfound vigor. It doesn’t bother him. Why should it bother him? It’s far from the first time he’s heard it.

In the morning he’ll travel south for a griffin contract in the next village before he heads toward Kaer Morhen for the winter, and Jaskier will head west toward Novigrad, and it won’t matter what he hears tonight. It happens this way every fall; once Samhain has passed and the winds grow icy, they part ways. Geralt settles in for a winter of hard work and hard drink with any of the remaining few wolves who make the trek, and Jaskier finds himself a home for a few months: in Oxenfurt, teaching through the winter term; in Novigrad, staying in a friend’s “establishment” (Geralt is fairly certain it’s a brothel, though Jaskier’s never confirmed) while he plays the free city’s tavern circuit at night and tutors wealthy brats during the day; sometimes at the estate of some noblewoman or other to serve as their court bard, entertaining in the banquet halls as well as the bedroom.

Tonight, Geralt sits in their shared room, alone, replenishing his alchemical stock, trying not to hear the commotion through the very thin adjoining wall. He’d been able to procure a few rare supplies from a local herbalist this afternoon, so rather than staying to hear Jaskier perform the evening’s _second_ rendition of the damned coin song he’d retreated to the room. He’d meticulously measured each ingredient, the familiar recipes of potions, decoctions, and blade oils embedded in his mind and his hands. It had promised to be a productive evening until the door to the room next to his slammed shut ten minutes ago, greeting Geralt with a noise he’s all too well acquainted with.

It’s not that Geralt listens to Jaskier’s conquests on purpose. He’s not… _spying_ , or eavesdropping, or anything of the sort. He just has heightened senses that are sometimes a touch unruly, difficult to fully divert from Jaskier’s frankly unnecessarily loud, frequent lovemaking.

And if on occasion his body reacts physically to this unrequested stimulus, well, that’s hardly his fault. It’s not as though he acts on it. ( _Thinks_ about acting on it, sometimes, thinks about taking himself in hand, stroking himself to the rhythmic creaking of the bedframe, imagining those thrusts are…no. Even thinking about fantasizing about…that would be wrong, and this is not Geralt’s fault.)

Jaskier’s companion for the evening seems to be of a much more reserved nature than his usual stream of paramours. Whoever she is pants a little when Jaskier says something particularly filthy but otherwise seems content to let the bard lead their dance.

Jaskier shows no such restraint. Wanton moans flood the air, golden voice dropped into a low, sultry purr. Putting on a show, as ever.

Perhaps more so than ever, Geralt can’t help noticing. The bard sounds like himself, but that sharp, heady smell of arousal, so ever-present it seems almost intrinsic to Jaskier, is noticeably absent, replaced by something dull, muted, distracted. Geralt forces his attention back to grinding the herbs, decidedly not listening to the sounds from just beyond the wall.

Suddenly there’s silence.

“I’m…I’m sorry.” Jaskier’s voice sounds small, small and mortified. “You’re lovely, truly you are, and normally I’d be beside myself with such a delightful offer, but tonight I…I fear I may not be, well, up to the task.”

Geralt’s brow furrows. Is Jaskier injured? He can’t smell blood or sense any pain on him. Ill, perhaps? But Jaskier is insufferable when he’s sick, prone to dramatic sighs and exaggerated bouts of coughing and plaintive pleas for broth served to him in bed; it’s not something easily missed.

To deny a bed partner isn’t something Jaskier _does_. Geralt doesn’t need inconveniently augmented hearing to know that; plenty of women in the taverns they frequent have no qualms openly discussing their satisfaction after their trysts with the bard. _Giving_ is a word that’s often thrown about in these conversations. _Thorough. Thoughtful. Generous._

( _And the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen,_ Geralt’s brain supplies helpfully, along with the dreamy expression on the face of the girl who’d uttered that particularly haunting sentiment.)

The point is, through absolutely no fault of his own Geralt is pretty intimately acquainted with Jaskier’s sexual prowess. For him to be—what had he said?—not _up to the task_ could only mean something’s seriously amiss.

Jaskier hesitates for a moment, and then there’s the shuffling sound of bed linens and flesh rearranged. “Here.” His voice is muffled slightly. “Fuck me instead?”

 _Oh_.

No wonder Geralt hasn’t heard the usual girlish giggles.

There’s another voice now, low, gruff, but unexpectedly _kind_. “You sure?” the man asks, and Geralt can hear the softest scrape of skin against skin, rhythmic; comforting circles rubbed on a naked back, perhaps. “We don’t have to.”

“Shh,” comes Jaskier’s voice, and there’s only the slightest trace of that unfamiliar shakiness, that uncertainty, “let me. Wanna make it good for you.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes, nothing but soft liquid-slide sounds and the occasional stilted, performative moan from the bard. Geralt tries his best not to listen.

It’s different, this time. For a moment, Geralt wonders, wildly, if he should intervene. Jaskier seems clearly upset. But it doesn’t seem to be because of his partner; Geralt doesn’t scent any fear from the bard, and the man had sounded patient, gentle even, when Jaskier admitted he couldn’t perform. So why…

For the first time since they arrived in the room beside him, Geralt scents the sharp, spicy turn in the air. “Yes,” Jaskier gasps, “hold me down.”

“ _Fuck_ , you’re tight.”

There’s a strained laugh. “It’s been ages since I last let— _oh_ —since I’ve been on the receiving end.” A hitched breath, a high-pitched whine, the obscene, accelerating slap of skin against skin. “You like that? Knowing I’ve been saving my arse for someone special? Knowing you’re the first one to take me like this in, fuck, at least a year?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Harder.” The smell of his arousal lingers but mingles with something else, something heavy and salty and overwhelming. “Fuck me hard. I want to feel it every step from here to Novigrad.” Grunts of exertion and fleshy pounding, the slamming of the bedframe against the wall. “Want to _feel_ it.” Jaskier’s gasp sounds almost like a sob. “Want to feel you after we part. Want to carry you with me till spring.”

Something in Geralt’s gut twists.

It’s not just that Jaskier’s sleeping with a man. That’s certainly…new information, a possibility Geralt’s somehow never truly considered. He’s noticed the bard take an interest in certain men before, seen some light flirtation, but somehow he’s never imagined him actually taking a man to bed.

But there’s something about this, something so very different from the times he’s heard Jaskier with lovers before. Jaskier always talks in bed (always talks _all_ the time), but it’s usually sensuous whispers of how much he wants them, how good he wants to make them feel, how perfect they are. He’s never heard Jaskier’s voice like this before. Raw. Hurting. Needy.

_Want to carry you with me till spring._

He shouldn’t be hearing this.

He stands, opening the small window, breathing in the night air and focusing his hearing to the sounds of the evening. The shriek of a barn owl. The rustling and crunching of dying leaves. The gentle whisper of the wind.

He turns back to his forgotten potions. Methodically adds arachas venom to the verbena pulp, heats the paste with the tiniest blast of igni, sets it aside to cool. Grinds chunks of dried nekker heart with dried ribleaf, scrapes the powder carefully into one of the small bottles, fills it to the top with dwarven spirit, corks it, swirls it gently. Crushes mistletoe berries, adds it to tallow, bottles it.

The man’s crashing orgasm inundates his senses, and Geralt’s careful distraction is broken.

The man breathes heavily, groans escaping them both as he pulls out. “You didn’t…can…can I? Suck you, or…”

“No, I’m fine.” Jaskier sounds shaken, vulnerable. “Truly. I assure you it’s not at all your fault, you’re perfect, you really are, I’m just…”

“Shh, it’s all right.” His tone is quiet, steady, reassuring, the way Geralt calms Roach when she’s panicked. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you?”

“Can I just…” Jaskier’s voice breaks slightly. “Just stay here for a little while?”

“Of course.” Geralt can hear the man leaving the bed, pouring water, rustling with linens. “Water?” the man asks, which Jaskier gratefully accepts. Geralt hears him settle back into the mattress, the wet slide of a cloth against skin, bodies folding together.

(What does he look like, this man? The thought comes unbidden.)

“Thank you.” The bard’s voice is soft, the overwrought edge dissipated. “You’re very thoughtful. What’s your name, thoughtful man?”

“Jurek.”

“Thank you, Jurek. You’re quite lovely.” It’s silent for a moment, and when Jaskier speaks again his voice is wistful. “Have you ever been in love, Jurek?”

The man hums. “Thought I was, once. Now I think maybe I was just young.”

“I was young, too.” And somehow, Jaskier _sounds_ older, that seemingly limitless energy stripped down into something tired, worn. “But it never quite went away.”

Geralt forces himself back to his task, methodically packing his potions and supplies carefully into his saddlebag, thoughts whirling, drowning out the soft conversation next door.

Jaskier is still young—young compared to Geralt, certainly—but he must be at least thirty now. It’s been over a decade since that wide-eyed, awkward, charming boy approached him in Posada. Over a decade that Jaskier’s put himself in harm’s way in order to get the best stories, in spite of Geralt’s constantly chiding. Over a decade spent sleeping on flea-infested straw pallets and thin bedrolls spread on hard ground instead of a feather bed in his own chamber at some noble’s estate. Over a decade Jaskier’s traveled with only a cynical, ill-tempered mutant as a constant companion, sating any other needs as he could with fleeting intimacies.

Over a decade he could have spent learning a lover slowly, dedicated to a real relationship, built a life with someone he loves. A marriage, even. A family. Instead he travels with Geralt.

_Have you ever been in love, Jurek?_

There’s something different about it, this thing with Jaskier, he’s known that for…well, years. Since before Cintra. It’s nothing like the amiable professional connections he’s made, nor even the few friendships he’s found along the Path. It’s not the bond he feels with Eskel or the other wolves, though that’s closer, maybe. It’s nothing easy. It’s nothing clean. It’s messy, fraught, frustrating.

Fulfilling. Lighter. Pleasant, sometimes.

_Want to carry you with me till spring._

He blows out the candle next to the bed, pulling off his boots and stripping down to his smallclothes before sliding between the sheets. He closes his eyes, but sleep remains predictably evasive.

Jaskier returns soon after, silent, pensive. He undresses in the darkness, lying down carefully beside Geralt. He’s washed, but a trace of Jurek’s release lingers underneath the light floral soap. He seems distracted, contemplative, but his heartbeat and breathing have relaxed into their usual tempo.

“Are you awake, Geralt?”

“Mmm.” After a moment, the witcher rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Good crowd tonight?”

“Not bad, actually. Did fairly well for myself, considering we’re still miles from civilization.” The bard takes a breath. His voice remains casual, but Geralt can sense the tension crawling up his neck. “Gods, what’s become of this year? Feels as though just last week you joined me in Oxenfurt, bringing the first blooms of spring on your heels. Somehow each year seems shorter than the last.” The melancholy note hangs in the air for a moment until he snorts, a teasing edge seeping into his melodic voice. “Is this what it’s like to get old, Geralt? I have it on the best authority you’re something of an expert on the matter.”

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier jerks upright, staring at Geralt. “ _What_?”

He doesn’t meet his gaze, keeping his eyes fixed deliberately on the ceiling’s beams. His throat is dry. “If you’d like. Winter at Kaer Morhen.” He hadn’t planned to ask, hadn’t thought of it until the words were halfway out of his mouth, but now that he’s said it it feels natural, right. “Save some coin, have more time to write. It’s nothing grand, but there’s food, warm beds, a library.”

Jaskier stretches slowly back onto the bed. “You never cease to surprise me, my dear witcher.” His tone is light, but there’s a wariness running just beneath the surface. “Here I’d thought you would want to spend your winter in silent solitude to recover from my—what did you call it yesterday? My endless jabbering?”

It’s an out, Geralt knows. The bard is worried that he regrets the invitation already, so he’s providing an escape. Geralt can rescind the offer without being cruel and they can laugh it off as a silly midnight whim. He considers for a moment before answering. “Kaer Morhen’s a huge keep surrounded by uninhabited mountains. If I need respite from your jabbering there are plenty of places to lay low.” Jaskier lets out a surprised huff of laughter at that, and Geralt chances a look. Jaskier is excited, blue eyes gleaming, but there’s no small amount of apprehension there—vulnerability, even. Geralt takes a breath. “If I didn’t want you there I wouldn’t have asked.”

It’s barely more than a low grumble, but the bard’s tension immediately evaporates. Even in the darkness Geralt can see the brightness of his slowly widening smile. “Very well. It would be my pleasure to accompany you, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” Absurdly, Geralt thinks about touching him. Placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Brushing back the sweat-damped curl from his forehead. Lacing their fingers together and letting them rest entwined on the thick, dark hair covering Jaskier’s chest.

He quickly turns on his side, toward the wall, away from such idle thoughts. “Get some sleep,” he mutters. “We leave at dawn.”

“At dawn,” Jaskier echoes. “Certainly. Goodnight, Geralt.”

They don’t leave at dawn—it’s an hour past before Geralt can even pry him from the bed—but he finds he doesn’t mind, somehow. Jaskier is in high spirits when they finally set out, humming a new tune as he nimbly plucks at his lute, and Geralt finds that he doesn’t mind that, either.

Something’s shifting. Geralt can’t quantify the change, can’t put it into words, can’t analyze each piece of evidence. They’re on a precipice, and any moment the slightest breeze may send them tumbling. He finds himself frowning at the bard; it’s frustrating, like a contract where the clues all seem to be pointing toward something just outside his realm of knowledge, some creature he’s heard whispers of but never personally researched, never prepared for, never fought.

But then Jaskier catches him looking and simply smiles back at him. It’s shifted, too. It’s not the cheeky grin that makes an appearance when Jaskier teases him, nor the casual, easy smile his handsome face seems to naturally fall into, a blithe, optimistic default. He’s smiling at Geralt as though he’s discovered something, a beautiful secret that lights his eyes like blue flame and dusts the slightest pink flush to his cheeks. He looks on the verge of speaking, wet rosy lips parted slightly, as though at any moment he may utter words Geralt longs for and dreads, words that could make and unmake him in a breath.

But Jaskier simply smiles and returns to humming his wordless tune.

 _There’s time_ , Geralt realizes with a heady exhilaration. They have months and months before spring.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr,](https://reinvent-and-believe.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined!


End file.
